“That’s news to me,” said Tom. “I was never called uppish before. I don’t see how you can think that.” “I didn’t say I thought so,” she said. “But your staying in the cottage with us will make them think so. That’s what they’ll say, _that you’re uppish_. That’s just what Ned Whalen will think; I can just _hear_ him asking, ‘Well, how’s things in the Executive Mansion?’” “Oh now—” her brother laughed deprecatingly. “Oh yes, he will,” she said. “That’s exactly what he asked Will Daggett; Will told me so himself. He has that _abominable_ sarcastic way about him. I know _just exactly_ the kind of things he’ll say. Things that make you _mad_, but that don’t give you a chance to _denounce_ him. I can just _hear_ him now.” “Nobody wants to denounce him,” soothed her brother. “I want to denounce him,” the girl said. “He’s a very good worker,” Nielson urged; “Will said so himself. Good outdoor man too. Get along,” he concluded, addressing the struggling horses. “I can hear you flying off the handle some fine day or other and telling him how you hate him and then I’ll lose the best worker I’ve got.” “I’m not an _idiot_,” said the girl. “You seem to know just exactly what I’ll do and say. Have I ever done or said anything?” “You seem to know just exactly what _he’ll_ do and say,” her brother laughed. “Who was Will Daggett?” Tom asked by way of generalizing the conversation. “He was a young gentleman,” said Audry. “And he kept the accounts and stayed in the cottage with us. He went home to prepare for college.” “He failed to pass last year—g’long, Flossie,” said her brother disinterestedly. “You’ll see,” said the girl mysteriously, and evidently addressing Tom who was standing behind them holding the back of the seat. “You’ll see for yourself. You’ll be a _martyr_ for living in the cottage.” “Well I don’t think I’d like that,” Tom said. “Maybe it would be better if I bunked in with the gang; maybe we’d all work better together that way. Especially as I guess most of them are older than I am. Gee, I don’t want them to think I’m a boss.” “You may be right about that,” said Ferris. “Then why don’t we all eat with them?” Audry asked. “Because we’re not in such close touch with them as Mr. Slade will be. He expects to work too.” “You bet,” said Tom. “Of course I never really bossed a job; at camp I’m a sort of a boss over the kids, I suppose you might say, and I mix up with them, eat with them and all that.” “That’s entirely different,” the girl said. “Y—yes, I suppose it is,” Tom conceded. “But I don’t know, up in lumber camps and places like that they all eat and bunk together, foremen and all—so I’ve heard.” “You see,” said Ferris, “we have to watch our step up here. Our outfit is a sort of a potpourri. They’re not regular laborers. We can’t get laborers to come up here. Some of them are pretty well educated and started out in good homes. We have to be careful.